


Less than Ideal

by Bellum_Intra



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Complete BS, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellum_Intra/pseuds/Bellum_Intra
Summary: Four times the Mandalorian touched the reader, with four different connotations.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Kudos: 48





	Less than Ideal

The first time The Mandalorian touches you isn’t exactly ideal.

Ok, maybe ‘ideal’ is a stretch. Everyone would agree that the lower levels of Coruscant can be a little sketchy at best, but it isn’t like you haven’t been bounty hunting for nearly your entire life in some capacity. And yeah, you would agree that running from someone as terribly attractive as the Mandalorian while looking for a quarry that could buy you a new ship and four kilos of solid beskar bricks isn’t the first impression you could ever give, but it could be worse.

You are dodging people left and right, running through vendor stalls as if you owned them taking a quick turn around the back of a cantina, and doubling back to your ship, your knapsack of food and supplies hurriedly thrown around your body. The bounty is in there, frozen in carbonite, not knowing the fate that awaits her. Karga had said it was some scumbag sex trafficker, and that she was wanted alive. Alive didn’t mean ‘uninjured’ though, and when you’d slammed her face a bit too hard into the floor to knock her out and heard the unmistakable crunch of her nose breaking…well…no at least no one was there to see the satisfaction on your face.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you made your way to the bay your ship was parked at, knowing that getting off this shitty plant was almost in reach. That was quickly shattered, however, when a hand appeared suddenly out of nowhere and the next thing you knew, you were back to chest with that shiny beskar you had been admiring earlier, the coolness of it a stark contrast to the heat of your skin through your clothes, a gloved hand dangerously across your throat. 

Your arms come up to try to pry his hand away from your throat, but it’s no use, his considerable height and weight and advantage you can’t shake. Fuck. If you were being honest with yourself, this is the worst time to meet someone who turns you on as much as he does. 

“Give me my bounty.” His voice is rough in your ear, and even though there is a modulator in the way, his voice turns you into a puddle of goop right there in the hangar. 

“What?” you retort, indignant at best. You had been tracking that bounty for weeks. Hell no. You tell him as much, but the grip on your throat tightens slightly, and you have to hold back a moan. Your arms fall to your side, and you lean back in against him, a plan forming in your mind. 

“Give. Me. The. Bounty.” he grits out again. If you were a weaker woman, you would have trembled at the sound. (It doesn’t mean you don’t touch yourself later, imagining the hand wrapped around your throat is his. But that can be your secret.)

“Make me,” you say, intentionally breathy, lolling your head back onto his shoulder. He reacts the way you expect him to, confused at what it is you’re playing at, giving you just enough time to grab the smallest blaster you carry on you that is always set to stun, and getting him right in the spot where the beskar on his thighs connects to his lower legs. You shift your weight forward, smiling to yourself as he drops in a heap behind you. 

You can see him stirring as you lift off the tarmac, a slight grin on your face as you pilot your ship, Carnage off of the docks.

Mando = 0

You=1

The second time he touches you, you’re in a dusty cantina on Axion-4. 

You don’t expect to see him here. The entire system is a backwater system of planets for people who don’t want to be found. Axion-4 is the most deserted of the five, but that’s why those on the run pick it. You wonder what he’s doing here, and laugh at yourself, sipping your broth with disinterest. You’re not even sure what _you’re_ doing on Axion-4 if you’re going to be one hundred percent honest with yourself. Laying low is the excuse you give yourself, but that’s not the truth either. You don’t have anything to lay low from, except that shit on Navarro that you’re pretty sure the metal man in front of you caused. 

You’d heard about it, of course. How couldn’t you? It was against Guild rules to do what he had done, especially after accepting payment. You knew Karga was livid, and you truly didn’t care. He’d contacted you several times, trying to get you to take the bounty out on the Mando and the quarry he was after, but you’d ignored Greef, quickly deleting the holo messages just as soon as you’d received them. You see the bounty he was after attached to his hip, and at that moment you understand why he had done what he had done on Navarro. How could someone put a bounty out against the little adorable thing?

The little child coos at the waitress who brings his broth, and you’re so incredibly focused on the little green guy that you don’t see the Mando move, stalking toward you in a gait that terrifies everyone else in the cantina. You outright smile as the green child does what can be best described as a little dance at getting some food. Same, little dude, you think to yourself, before a large hand clamps down painfully on your shoulder. You look up and see The Mandalorian looking down at you, gaze penetrating through the black T of his visor, silence stretching uncomfortably between the two of you.

This is the first time you have been able to observe him, so you do. His body language screams that he is ready to fight, even though he hasn’t spoken a word. He has a nearly feline grace to him, reminding you of a nexu, terrifying and deadly at the same time. The hand that is clamped on your shoulder is maintaining the same bruising pressure, and you know when you get back to Carnage you’ll have his handprint to add to the ‘hyperspace times’ collection. That mental image alone nearly makes you shiver, but you control yourself. You know if the Mandalorian wanted you dead, you would be right now.

“He’s cute,” you say flippantly, returning your gaze to the green guy in front of you who is trying to use the spoon in his little three-fingered hand and failing, before just giving up and holding the bowl like a cup. “I can see why you did it. I couldn’t have let him go not knowing what the imps were going to do, either.”

Your response must have shocked him because his grip suddenly loosens, and when you look at him again, it looks like he’s been burned. You continue, “ I’ve been here for 32 daily cycles. Karga has been trying to message me. They’ve got a bounty out on you and the child. 45,000 Imperial Credits.”

He doesn’t reply for a moment, and the silence around you turns heavy. You pick up your spoon, intending to take a bite of your broth when something in the corner of the dark cantina catches your eye, the Twi’lek attempting to move quickly but quietly through the cantina, eyes focused on the child. You move almost instinctively, a curt “Mando, the child” escaping your lips before you’re standing, hand going for the vibroblade attached to your right hip. He moves, going to draw his blaster but you’re quicker, the virboblade lodging itself deep in the Twi’lek’s chest. 

The child looks up, squeaking as a body falls on his table and sloshing his broth. A hush falls over the cantina, the other patrons looking at you and then the shiny Mandalorian beside you. You and the Mando make your way to the child, your hand on your blaster as you look at the bartender, almost asking him to try something. You fish the tracker out of the dead Twi’lek’s jacket and hand it to the Mando. 

“Thank you,” he says, and you smile wryly at him, tossing a few credits on your table for the broth, before grasping his arm and pulling him in close. 

“ **Gar cuyir olarom. Baatir par gar foundling, Mando. Vi Kelir urcir tug'yc**. ” You say to him, before walking out of the cantina, glancing behind you. He’s watching you leave, helmet tilted curiously to one side, staring at you until the cantina’s doors close. 

It isn’t until you’ve exited the planet’s atmosphere and set course for Helion that you undo the top couple buttons of your shirt and slide it down over your left shoulder, seeing the bruised handprint there, so much bigger than your own, and you groan muttering a soft _shit_ before going down to the kitchenette and getting caf. 

You=2

Mando= ~~0~~ 0.5

The third time he touches you, it’s life and death.

After that night at the cantina on Axion-4, you’d started tracking the child and Mando, picking off other hunters who had tried to capture the child. After Carnage had gotten blown up on Tatooine thanks to that dead punk of a bounty hunter, you’d started traveling with Mando and the child. You’d grown so attached to him, caring for him as if you were his mother. Mando noticed but didn’t comment on it.

You’d grown closer to Mando, no Din, as you’d journeyed around the galaxy with your little green founding, trying to outrun Moff Gideon all the while. You’d formed a sort of relationship with Din, built on mutual understanding, trust, and respect. He’d surprised you, opening up a little after the events on Sargon and Tatooine. Snippets of his past, his distrust for droids, and his pain at having accidentally exposed the covert. You had shared your story as well. You’d told him your father was a Mandalorian, and you a founding, but you nor your father followed their ways in the way Din did. He’d died about four years before you’d met Din on a bounty gone wrong. You’d cried for the first time since your father’s death in the worn cockpit of the Razor Crest, telling Din how you spent all day at the Sarlacc pit crying out for your father, knowing it was useless. 

You don’t know what you’d call your relationship to Din, but you know you cared for him. Cared for him more than anyone else besides your father and the child. You know Din cares for you, too, judging by the way he does things for you. A hot cup of caf with cream here, a square of spicy chocolates there, the extra blanket always on your cot that you’d welded into the wall. He is touched starved, you realize quickly after joining the crew of the Crest, and you try to not touch him as much as possible. He readily accepts snuggles from the child, but even then he is always covered in beskar. One night, after he’d taken off his gloves and was relaxing (as much as he could) in a tunic and pants, you’d handed him the child and your fingers brushed for a moment. It was enough to make Din shiver, and you’d recoiled, immediately finding something to busy yourself within the bowels of the ship. Something had changed that day. Something you weren’t ready for, something you were too afraid to name…

You come to in flashes of pain and memory. His touch is the first thing you register, calloused hands tenderly stroking your cheek in the middle of the half-destroyed cantina, shaking as they pull away and his hands are covered in blood, in your blood. 

“Your hands,” you say feebly, looking around at the droid to your left and the child beside you, “where are your gloves? Your hands are covered in blood.” He’s saying something to you that you can’t quite understand, you can’t make out the words over the gunfire. The droid is trying to open something to your left, but you are fading in and out, flashes of light disrupting your vision. Your eyes go to close, too tired to stay awake. You know you’re bleeding from your head, the pain becoming worse and worse.

“ **Cyar'ika** ,” he pleads, “stay awake. Please.” You know the droid had used all of its bacta on Din a few moments before you were thrown into the stone wall of the cantina. Karga and the trooper had taken the child down into the coverts with the droid. You two are alone.”

“ **Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Din**.” You say, pain overtaking you. 

The last thing you remember seeing is a pair of deep brown eyes…

The fourth time he touches you, you aren’t prepared for it.

You wake up tucked into the bunk of the Razor Crest, the child hanging above you in his hammock, with a splitting headache and a body that feels like you were the one who was tossed around by a mudhorn. You’re shocked you’re alive if you’re honest, and you aren’t really paying attention to your surroundings. You recognize the hum of the ship, the coos the child does in his sleep frequently, and you recognize you’re warm. So, so warm. 

“ **Cyar'ika** ,” he whispers into the back of your neck, and you shiver, feeling his lips against your skin. You immediately close your eyes, reaching for the light switch you know is somewhere on the wall, a groan of pain leaving your wounded body.

“ **Cyar'ika** what are you doing?” He asks you, as you feel the warmth of his ungloved hand covering yours, bringing it back to your chest.

“Your helmet.” You say, taking your hands away from your chest and covering your eyes. “You don’t have your helmet.” 

You hear him sigh behind you, and then hear the switch flicking off, the sleeping quarters suddenly shrouded darkness. “Did you mean it? Do you remember?” He asks, and it’s the first time you’ve heard insecurity in his voice.

You’re quiet for a moment. You know what he means. He knows you know what he means. “Yes.” 

He exhales again against your neck. “I’m going to kiss you now. Is that ok?” He asks, moving you in the dark. Your yessss is whispered against his lips, and you’ve never felt more at home than in that moment. He leaves you too soon, and you find yourself chasing his lips. He gently chastises you, “Shh. Careful, **cyar’ika**. I only had enough bacta to treat your head, not the rest of your body. You must rest.”

“Din, I-” but you are interrupted again by another quick peck to your lips, his hands trailing down your back. 

“We will talk later. You must rest.” You hum, knowing it’s useless to argue with him, bringing a tanned hand to your lips before snuggling back into his chest and letting sleep overtake you. You mutter a sleepy I love you in Mando’a before drifting off, but not before hearing his reply. 

“ **Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, cyar'ika**. Rest.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mando’a Translations:
> 
> cyar'ika = Darling
> 
> Gar cuyir olarom. Baatir par gar foundling, Mando.Vi Kelir urcir tug'yc = You are welcome. Care for your foundling, Mandalorian. We shall meet again
> 
> Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Din= I love you, Din.


End file.
